


Slow and Fizzy

by mldrgrl



Series: Adventures of The Lady Detective and The Writer [41]
Category: Californication (TV), The Fall (TV 2013)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Fluff, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-17
Updated: 2017-12-17
Packaged: 2019-02-16 01:22:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13043586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mldrgrl/pseuds/mldrgrl
Summary: The Hanella Christmas story everyone's been asking for





	Slow and Fizzy

Stella could hear laughter outside her office door and she took a glance up from her report to look out the window.  The office party appeared to be in full swing.  She went back to her report and tuned out the noise.

 

For the first time in perhaps ever, she had taken the holidays off.  A full two weeks vacation that would begin the moment she walked out the door until after the new year.  It was easier to do this year considering her responsibilities had become more analytical than hands on in the field.  In the past though, she never minded working on a holiday.  There was no reason not to.  Crime didn’t stop just because it was Christmas.  This year, however, she wanted the time off.  She wanted to spend it with her husband.

 

All she needed to do was finish her report.

 

On her desk, her cell phone chimed and she picked it up and opened the text message.  It was a photo of men’s white boxers with mistletoe just above the button fly.  Below it, Hank had written:  _ Should I get them in white or red? _

 

Stella closed her eyes for a moment and shook her head as she chuffed a short laugh through her nose.  She texted him back:  _ Doesn’t seem very fair. _

 

Thirty seconds later, there was a photo of thong panties with the same mistletoe printed on the crotch in reply.   _ I’ve heard it’s better to give than receive anyway _ , he’d written.

 

_ Don’t fret, Watson, I’m a believer in equality.  I do need to get this report done however, so I can be on my way. _

 

There was no response, so she put her phone down, but a minute later it chimed again.  Hank had texted a string of emojis: kissy face, santa, Christmas tree, eggplant, taco, , bed, bathtub, a heart in every color, the Union Jack, an American flag, and then four more eggplants and about ten tacos.

 

Stella shook her head again, but didn’t respond.  A little under an hour later, she was shutting down her computer and gathering her things.  She called the car service she frequently used that would reliably pick her up within the next ten minutes and then she put on her coat and gloves.  Her satchel was light, only burdened with her laptop and not the usual files to review.  She had to pause at the door to reassure herself she wasn’t forgetting anything important.

 

Christmas music hit her full force when she opened her office door.  A young man she recognized as one of the mail clerks was singing a karaoke version of Last Christmas as a group wearing santa hats laughed and shared punch from plastic cups.  Stella observed the party with mild amusement as she slowly made her way out of the office.

 

“Happy Christmas, Ma’am,” one of her first-year detectives waved to her as she passed.

 

Stella searched for the woman’s name in the recesses of her memory.  “Happy Christmas, Fiona,” she replied, giving the detective a brief smile.

 

“Not staying for the party?”

 

“I must get home, actually.”

 

“Have a nice vacation.  Delayed honeymoon is it? They tell me you were recently married.  Congratulations.”

 

“Thank you.”  Stella adjusted the grip on her satchel, the thought of being the subject of office gossip making her momentarily tense.  “Enjoy the party.”

 

No one else stopped her on the way out.  Outside, the air was cool and crisp.  A light wind ruffled her hair and stung her cheeks.  She stood at the top of the stairs by the entrance for a few moments to acclimate, and then she headed down to wait at the curb.  The car arrived a short time later and she nodded her hello to the chauffeur, Nicolá.  He’d been driving for her with some regularity for years.

 

“Headed home, signora?” Nicolá asked, his dark eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror from under the brim of his hat.

 

“Yes,” she answered, sinking back into the plush seat and removing her gloves.  “Home, please.”

 

One of the things Stella liked about Nicolá was that he was never one to initiate small talk.  He was friendly and polite, but never pried.  Sometimes she asked him questions if she needed a distraction, and the conversation was always easy.  She knew he was in his late sixties.  He and his wife came from Sicily when their five children, four boys and one girl, were very small.  His daughter had married last summer.  His youngest son was a med student.

 

Stella gazed at the Christmas lights adorning shops and trees as they drove by.  She’d never decorated her home at all, never had a Christmas tree, and never put up lights, though when she was a child, one of her nannies had made green and red paper chains with her to countdown to the holiday.  She also vaguely remembered hanging a white stocking on the mantle for several years that was filled with her favorite sweets come Christmas morning.  Otherwise, she’d never grown up with any sort of tradition surrounding the holiday.

 

“What will you do for Christmas, Nicolá?” Stella asked.

 

“I have a new grandson this year, signora,” he answered.

 

“Do you?”

 

“My wife is beside herself with joy.  She says she will cook the biggest lasagna ever, but baby Gio, he has not one tooth.  I think she is trying to make me fatter than I already am.”

 

Stella smiled.  

 

“What will you do, signora?”

 

“I’ll just be spending a few quiet weeks with my husband.”

 

“Ah, have you married that dark haired American man?”

 

“I have.”

 

“That’s a good thing.  When he rides with you, you are happier.”

 

“Am I?”

 

“Oh, yes.  There is a saying, l’amuri è come a tussi, nun si po ammucciari.  It means, love is like a cough, impossible to hide.  Your American man suffered loud, uncontrollable coughing, clear as glass, but you also.  You keep it deep in your chest so no one will hear, but I see it.”

 

Stella smiled again and she felt it reach her eyes.  Nicolá winked at her in the rearview mirror and she turned to the window again, the smile still pulling at her mouth.

 

“There is another expression,” Nicolá said.  “Quannu amuri tuppulìa, 'un lu lassari 'nmenzu la via.  It means, when love knocks, be sure to answer.”

 

They were very near Stella’s townhouse now, only a few blocks and a turn there.  Up ahead was the a neighborhood grocery they often ordered from, but that she’d rarely been inside of.  The storefront was sweetly decorated with twinkling lights.

 

“Would you stop here, please?” Stella asked.

 

Nicolá slowed the car to a stop.  Stella pulled her gloves back on and grabbed her satchel.

 

“I wait here for you, signora?” Nicolá asked.

 

“Not necessary, I’ll walk from here.”  Stella exited the car, but turned back before she shut the door.  “Congratulations on the baby.”

 

“Congratulations on your American.  Happy Christmas, signora.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Nicolá.”

 

What caught Stella’s eye, the reason she had Nicolá stop the car, was the display of poinsettias outside the entrance of the grocery.  They were small and the pots were wrapped in foils of bright green, red, or gold.  She touched their red leaves with the tips of her gloved fingers and then chose a pot wrapped in gold and went into the store.

 

If Christmas had a smell, the front of the store had it.  Along with the warmth that hit her was the spicy aroma of cinnamon and pine.  She adjusted her hold on the poinsettia, tucking it in the crook of her arm, and picked up a small basket of scented pine cones and then a wreath adorned with holly.

 

“Need a basket, Miss?” a store clerk asked.

 

“Please.”  Stella placed each item in the basket the clerk offered and then put it over her arm to browse the aisles.  She left the store ten minutes later with the poinsettia, the pinecones, the wreath, a box of assorted Turkish Delight, and a bottle of sloe gin.

 

The bags were cumbersome, but it was a short walk home and she managed.  The house was dark, but she called Hank’s name even though it was apparent he wasn’t home.  She checked her phone for messages she may have missed, but there was nothing since his texts while she was in the office.  In his absence, she hung the wreath on the front door and placed the basket of pine cones on the table in front of the window, next to the poinsettia.

 

While she was in the store, she’d remembered something from when she was small.  Her father had read her A Visit From St. Nicholas while sipping a sloe gin fizz.  She was tucked under his arm, snuggled against him, turning the pages since he had to hold the book with one hand and his drink with the other.  She’d asked him what sugar plums tasted like and he’d said maybe like Turkish Delight.

 

Part of Stella considered taking a shower and slipping into her pajamas, but they’d talked about going out for dinner tonight, so she stayed in her slacks and blouse.  Out of habit, she nearly pulled her laptop out of her bag, but she stopped herself at the last minute and opened a book instead.

 

She was two pages deep into an advanced reader that Hank had been sent by his publisher when he came home.  There were snowflakes in his hair and on the shoulders of his jacket, which he brushed off at the door.

 

“It’s snowing?” she asked.

 

“Starting to,” he answered.

 

“Certainly cold enough.”

 

“Yep.”  Hank brushed a hand back and forth over his head.  A shopping bag dangled from his fingers.

 

“What’s that you have?”

 

He lifted the bag slightly and looked at it.  “This?  Ran into Santa while I was out and he asked me to hold these for you.”

 

“Presents?”

 

“You’ve been busy.  Look at that, now we have a Christmas tree.”

 

“A poinsettia hardly qualifies as a Christmas tree.”

 

“Tree enough.”  Hank stepped out of his shoes and crossed the room to the front table.  He pulled three small, gift-wrapped boxes out of the bag and placed them wherever he could fit them around and under the potted plant.

 

“There wouldn’t be a mistletoe g-string in any of those boxes would there?”

 

“Don’t want to ruin the surprise.”

 

Stella tossed the book that had been sitting on her lap onto the table as Hank sat down next to her.  He tipped himself towards her and ended up with his head in her lap.  She slid her fingers through his hair, wetting her hands with lingering snowflakes.

 

“How was your day, dear?” he asked.

 

Stella tweaked his ear in response and hank quickly turned his head, nipping at her wrist.  She chuckled and took hold of his chin as he leaned up and tried to kiss her, turning her head away at the last second.

 

“Oh, you’re feisty tonight,” Hank said, flipping around so he hovered over Stella and nuzzled her neck.  “Does it have anything to do with this Christmas spirit that’s gotten into you?”

 

“I was simply feeling in the mood.”

 

“Mm, in the mood.  I like the sound of that.”  His nose traveled up the side of her neck and under her ear.

 

Stella tipped her neck for Hank and rolled her head to the side.  One of his hands moved up to the back of her head and his lips grazed the back of her neck on the way down to her shoulder. 

 

“Have you ever had a sloe gin fizz?” Stella asked.

 

“No, but I’ve had a fast hard fuck.  Why do you ask?”

 

“I was thinking about Christmas earlier.  Remembering a year my father had read me A Visit From St. Nick while sipping on a sloe gin fizz.”

 

“What’s A Visit From St. Nick?”

 

“‘Twas the night before Christmas, et cetera, et cetera.”

 

“I’ve got one for you,” Hank said, and his tongue dipped into the teardrop opening at the front of her blouse to lick the hollow of her throat.  “‘Twere three nights before Christmas and in each and every room, Hank planned on fucking Stella.”

 

Hank ended there and cupped one of her breasts as he rocked his hips against hers.  She opened the leg towards the outside of the couch to let him sink down between her thighs and leaned back into the arm of the couch.

 

“And?” she said.

 

“And what?” he mumbled, rubbing his face down her belly to push her blouse up with his nose.

 

“What’s the rest of the poem?”

 

“And so we fuck.  The end.”

 

“Oh, no,” she said, taking his head between both of her hands and pulling his face back up to hers.  “I want the rest.”

 

“Since when is poetry a turn on for you?”

 

“It isn’t.  I’m simply saying you cannot leave a poem unfinished like that.”

 

“I have better things to do.”  He bucked his hips up between her thighs for emphasis.

 

Truth be told, Stella had been ready and waiting for him since he’d texted that afternoon. Sometimes just the thought of him being home waiting for her could arouse her to the point of angry frustration.  But, there were also times when she liked the delayed satisfaction.  Liked to toy with him a bit.  Liked for him to think he had to work for it.  

 

“I insist,” Stella said.  

 

Hank groaned.  “Fine.  ‘Twere three nights before Christmas and all Hank wanted to do, was eat out his wife and give her a nice screw.”

 

As he spoke, his hands moved up and over her body and his head moved further south, but suddenly he came back up and pinned her arms back above her head with a strong grip.  He held her wrists close together with both hands, but let go of one to reach down and toy with her waistband before he continued the poem.  She left her freed wrist in place.

 

“He unzips her pants,” Hank whispered, narrating his actions in rhyme.  “Quickly unbuttons his own, then slides in two fingers, making her moan.”

 

“Mm,” Stella grunted slightly, tilting her hips for him as he curled those two fingers inside her.  He teased her with slow strokes, all the while managing to work her down until she was flat on her back on the couch, elbows bent so her arms were still above her head and her wrists rested loose on the top of the arm.  He had one foot on the ground and one knee between her thighs, pressing her leg open for him.

 

“More,” she said.

 

“Thought you wanted it slow and fizzy,” he taunted, withdrawing his fingers only a fraction and softening his touch.

 

“More of the poem,” she taunted back, even though her muscles clenched and quivered, begging for more of him on their own and making her neediness well known.

 

“I can keep this up all night,” he said.  “Why should I go so fast?  I’ve got one question in mind: how long can you last?”

 

“Shut up and fuck me, Watson.”

 

Hank jerked his hand up and pressed so deep against her g-spot she gasped.  Her toes tingled and curled and her hands closed into fists, but there was nothing to grasp.  She was almost there, almost there, if he would just do that again, once more, maybe twice.

 

“I can feel how close you are,” he said, stilling his hand completely so that she growled at him with gritted teeth.  “You’re so wet and glistening, but I won’t let you come until I know that you’re listening.”  

 

Stella arched her back up in protest, trying to force him to move against her.  He chuckled quietly and she turned her face away from him, cheeks aflame with how much she needed him to give her release.  Out of desperation, and maybe a little bit of revenge, she reached down and drove her hand into his jeans, giving him a hard squeeze in hopes that he’d crumble under the weight of his own desire to be inside her.  With his face so close to hers, she could hear him smile.

 

“You know I do my best work with your hand on my cock, Sherlock.”

 

Stella groaned.

 

“In fact, I think I might dedicate my next book to your right hand.”

 

“Please,” she said, drawing her hand out of his pants to reach up and grip his hair.

 

Hank’s mouth moved so close to her ear that his breath made her shiver as he whispered, “I need to you know, you’re the love of my life.  And how happy I am, that you are my wife.”

 

He didn’t even move, but Stella shivered with release from only his voice in her ear. __ He could’ve been smug about it and stopped to congratulate himself, but he didn’t.  He withdrew his fingers and sat up a little, tugging on her pants.

 

“Lift dat ass, babe,” he said.

 

Stella pushed her hips up and Hank dragged her slacks and panties down her thighs.  One of her legs was trapped between him and the back of the couch, but that didn’t stop him.  He managed to finagle her pants past one of her knees and that was enough.  She was already reaching for him when he pushed his own jeans off his hips and that was enough for her as well.

 

With practiced ease, Hank drove into her.  His sticky fingers clutched her thigh to bring her leg up higher even as she hooked it up and over his hip.  He paused for a few moments, just to kiss her, to sweep his tongue into her mouth and to take a few panting breaths against her lips.  She kissed him back, and then pulled his head up by his hair to look into his eyes.

 

“And I heard him exclaim,” he panted, snapping his hips into hers in increasing momentum.  “As he fucked his bride dizzy, Merry Christmas to all, and that’s what we call slow and fizzy.  Fuck, I’m gonna come.”

 

Hank’s thrusts grew slower and deeper until he dropped his head and groaned into Stella’s shoulder.  His body grew heavier on top of her and she reveled in the feeling of it.  The sedate happiness she experienced in that moment felt like Christmas to her.

 

“I love you,” she said.

 

Hank lifted himself up just enough to brace his arm on the back of the couch and look down at her.  “I know,” he said.  “Merry Christmas, Sherlock.”

 

“Happy Christmas, Watson.”

 

The End


End file.
